all the ashes in our wake
by Force Unbroken
Summary: "They are a collection of fragments in the aftermath of Grindelwald and Credence and losing Jacob, each shard glistening with smoke and ash. But they are not destroyed, and as the dust settles, perhaps that is what matters." Or: the week between New York's obliviation and Newt's departure, from the perspective of Britain's preeminent magizoologist.
1. Remnants

_It's been more than two years since I've published anything and I'm almost embarrassed to admit how long I've been working on this particular piece, but considering I just graduated college with two jobs and a 4.0, I'm taking this as a win. This chapter is part one of seven; updates will be posted on Sundays simply to spite Uncle Vernon's belief that there *is* no post on Sundays. Hopefully I've done Jo's world justice. I hope you all enjoy._

* * *

 ** _December 8th - 9th, 1926_**

* * *

It is Tina who Disapparates them, in the end.

They stumble into existence on the rough-hewn plank floors of the sisters' brownstone, each bleeding from wounds that leave no stain. Hands grip elbows, clench palms, cradle wrists, knotting them together in snarls of jagged emotion; they do not yet release for fear that loosing those fetters would take them from three to two, and they've so recently gone from four to three. Rain is drumming against the windows in a pattern that taps " _forget, forget"_ into the glass, and for a moment, they stand there, breath echoing in an arrhythmic scrape against the silence, bodies frozen as if one misstep will shatter what little peace remains in this last safe space. Newt clenches one fist around the worn, smooth handle of his case and breathes deep enough to send a sharp ache twisting through his chest. They've fought Grindelwald himself and survived – the fact that they're even standing here is a miracle.

 _But it's hollow without Jacob,_ he thinks, and damn MACUSA, damn Picquery, damn all of it, Jacob Kowalski deserves to be standing here too.

It is only when Queenie extricates herself from her sister's grip that he realizes his mistake. He has none of the mental diplomacy that comes from living with a Legilimens; he cannot erase the thought and his Occlumency is not strong enough to keep from broadcasting it. Queenie hears him, of that he's certain, and eases her elbow free of Tina's grasp to wander, half aimless and wholly downcast, into the kitchen.

Tina watches her go. Her fingers are still tangled with his own, he realizes belatedly, looking down to find her palm pressed flush with his. Her gaze is trained on her sister; she has not noticed that he hasn't yet let her go. The involuntary tightening of his grip snaps her from her daze and she glances up at him only long enough to realize their close proximity. Her fingers thread free of his in embarrassment, and she follows after her sister, nervously tucking wisps of hair behind her ears. The soft clatter of dishes from the kitchen indicates that Queenie has busied herself with cleaning up the remaining mess of two nights before; Tina's gentle entreaty of "Let me help, huh?" is the only thing he hears through the haze of sudden lightheadedness that seizes hold of his body. He sets his case on the floor with great care and eases himself onto the sofa, wondering why he feels so oddly bereft without the warmth of her hand in his.

Newt does not know how much time passes as he slumps boneless on the cushions. Tremors creep into his wrists, his fingers. He does not think his legs will support him if he tries to stand. His marrow is lead, his bones steel; the weight of them presses him back into the sofa. Iron bands have clamped about his chest, and every inhale drags the fabric of his shirt across tender flesh and electrical burns. He's never been in a duel, exactly, not outside of Defence classes; his creatures are clawed and fanged and venomed but they've never given him injuries of this sort. _Paste for the bruises,_ he thinks. _Perhaps a bit of Dittany and Murtlap essence for the burns._ He's not quite sure what to do about the tightness in his chest or weakness of his muscles – Potions class was quite a long time ago, and he was always a bit distracted by his studies of magical creatures – but there should be something in his notes to treat the lingering effects of electrocution and stun curses, and if he can manage to locate his notebook, he should be able to find _something_ to –

"Newt?"

He startles at the voice. A cursory glance upward reveals Tina Goldstein standing over him, holding a cup of something fragrant and steaming beneath his nose. Her features are marred by what appears to be mixed exhaustion and concern (and there is a part of him, a very small part, that wonders when he became able to tell the difference). He struggles up from his hunched position and forces trembling limbs to accept the cup.

"Drink this," she says. "You look like you need it."

(He has little hope that he doesn't look as terrible as he feels.)

The tea is hot and soothing on his tongue. It warms his throat and pools in his belly and the tension in his chest eases with its heat. He fights his twitching hands and attempts not to slosh the mug's contents onto the floor, but eventually the tremors become manageable and the buzz humming beneath his skin calms to a prickle of sensation. "Thank you," he murmurs, and he is able to meet her eyes long enough to see a weak, sad smile curve her lips. But then she is gone to tend the fire and he is left to sip his tea in silence, and he watches Queenie across the room as she stares vacantly into the rain, causing his chest to grow tight and his ribs to ache for an entirely different reason.

 _Oh Queenie. I am so, so sorry._

And once again, he curses his brain, because that was apparently the wrong thing to think.

Queenie stiffens and wraps her arms tight about herself as she steps away from the window. Her composure is intact but just barely; he watches her swipe a hand beneath one eye, then the other. "I'm kinda tired," she says, not looking up at Newt or her sister as she strides with resolute purpose towards the safety of her bedroom. "Think I'm gonna lie down for awhile, if that's all right?"

Tina starts toward her, but Queenie is long gone. The door slides shut just as Tina reaches it, her wounded "Queenie, please wait," bouncing off the wood panel to reverberate in her face. She pauses with one hand on the door. "Queenie?"

There is no answer from the other side. Newt watches Tina rest her forehead against the panel for just a moment before she gives up and lets herself slump into one of the chairs at the kitchen table, head falling into her hands. She pinches the bridge of her nose, defeat visible in every line of her frame.

 _What a bloody mess we are,_ he thinks, and feels a sharp pang echo behind his sternum. They are a collection of jagged fragments, each sharp and raw. He can only wonder if time will be enough to dull their edges.

He should go back to his creatures. He should go back to the only thing he's known, the only thing he's allowed himself to know since Leta burned too bright for the both of them and sent him tumbling down in flames. He shouldn't let himself get attached because thus far everything human he's touched has broken and he knows he cannot undo what has been done. But his wand is in his hand and the magic is so easy when nothing else is, and he places the conjured mug of black coffee on the table in front of Tina, watching as the steam curls to caress her face and she looks up at him with red-rimmed eyes.

"Take it," he says, falling into the seat beside her. "You look like you could use something too."

The smile she gives him, wan and cracked as it may be, warms a part of him that tea cannot touch.

She returns his notebook, later, after the coffee is gone and the fire has dimmed, having kept it safe in her pocket during the mess of Grindelwald and Credence. He takes it with a stammered "thank you" and tucks it into his overcoat, and if their fingers brush during the trade, they do not mention the warmth that passes between them or the inexplicable tug that keeps them here, at this table, when they have no reason to stay. He apologizes for his creatures and she apologizes for his attempted arrests, and they don't quite make eye contact in either conversation but that's all right. They sit there, in exhausted, grief-stained silence, until the thunder dies down and the lightning ceases flashing and it hurts a little less to breathe.

When the soft, ragged sounds of Queenie's sobbing slip through the crack beneath the bedroom door, he watches Tina fracture just a little bit more as she pleads with her sister to let her help, to let her in. He chokes on words he can't say and things he can't fix and retreats into his case to give them privacy, where he treats his wounds with Dittany and Murtlap essence and falls asleep gracelessly slumped at his desk. When he wakes, hours later, tense and aching and desperate for a glass of water, he emerges to silence and darkness and finds Tina curled into herself against the bedroom door, fast asleep, and something _shifts_ inside his chest at the sight, something he can't explain that frightens him and warms him and slips through the gaps in his chest to curl beneath his ribs.

They are jagged, he thinks. They are glistening with smoke and ash. But they are not destroyed, and that's what matters.

He drapes an afghan over her and tucks it in tight. As he returns to his creatures, glass of water in hand, he tries not to think of how she leaned into his touch, or the salt tracks barely visible on her skin.

* * *

 _Reviews are a cup of cocoa and a slice of Queenie's strudel._


	2. Foundation

_Many thanks to those who took the time to read and review this little brainchild of mine - I'm mentally sending you all good vibes and a box of Jacob's pastries. If you're in the mood for further fic ramblings, fandom nonsense, and some occasional screaming about real life, find me on tumblr at chaseyesterdays._

 _Now then. On with the story!_

* * *

 _December 9th, 1926_

* * *

The sun has long crested the New York City skyline when he rises. Newt drags himself gingerly out of his case and is greeted by a robe-clad Queenie, the sizzling scent of eggs and fried potatoes, and a strange vial of potion the Legilimens presses into his hand.

"For the rest of those injuries," she says with a flourish of her wand. He downs the potion in one long gulp and almost staggers in relief when he stops feeling like a beaten prizefighter with one finger in an electrical socket.

Queenie must see – or read – his surprise. "Better?"

He blinks. "Loads, actually." A plate of toast and eggs appears in front of him, and he tucks into it with gusto. "How did you come by that particular brew?"

Queenie's eyes are still bruised and her lips don't quirk quite the way they normally do, but her expression is bright when she looks over her shoulder at him. "Teenie's an Auror," she says by way of explanation. He doesn't miss the unwavering use of present tense. "Scrapes like this are just a hazard of the job."

They finish breakfast together before Queenie leaves to handle her responsibilities at the office. Newt magicks the dishes clean while she bundles up, and the fact that he doesn't feel fidgety or uncomfortable in this new terrain despite only knowing the Goldstein sisters for three days is not lost on him. "Tina's probably been at headquarters for hours," Queenie says in answer to Newt's unasked question, tucking her scarf beneath the collar of her coat. "We both oughta be back before dark. Think you can keep those crazy creatures in the case for that long?"

It's a joke, but he hears the latch click open across the room and freezes. "Y-yes," he stammers. "Not a problem."

The second she's out the door, he snaps the lock back in place and breathes a sigh of cautious relief.

He sneaks out of the apartment perhaps an hour after being left alone. His case, bound with twine, is a comforting weight at his side. He isn't familiar enough with his surroundings to Apparate – at least, not with any particular destination in mind – so he takes the opportunity to wander, letting his eyes rove over the city as his feet explore its alleys and streets. He's amazed by the bustle, the crowds of wizards and Muggles alike milling about from one place to another. It's a familiar sight, or at least it should be; he's seen enough of the world to know the similarities inherent in large cities, but there is always something new to discover, always something unique about each corner of the globe that begs him to take notice. The air is different, the chill, the snow hard packed into the crevices of sidewalks, the angles of doorsteps. He can feel the rumble of the subway trains beneath his toes. There is a certain magic in this harsh, wonderful, maddening city, and he lets it wash over him as he weaves a path from one set of sidewalks to another, nose full of winter air and motorcar exhaust, eyes searching the sky for a silhouette he knows is not there.

 _This isn't Arizona, Frank. Far from it. But perhaps you've found your way home just the same._

He wanders until his feet ache and the cold tips his ears pink and the ocean yawns before him in an endless expanse of blue-green glass, salt breeze ruffling his hair as he watches ships roll in on the tide. When early afternoon sunlight glints off the Statue of Liberty and Pickett chitters in protest of the cold from his collar, he ducks his head and makes his way down to the docks, remembering the reason why he left the brownstone in the first place. The ticket booth is all but empty this time of day; he rocks back and forth on his heels in the queue until he can pull out his passport and stammer an inquiry about the next passenger vessel leaving for England. Before he quite knows what's happened, he's handing over a fistful of Muggle money and pocketing his ticket home, and it isn't until he looks at the fine print that he realizes he might have a problem.

 _ **ROYAL STAR STEAM CO.  
**_ _Ocean Passenger "FORT ELIZABETH" (2187C)  
Departing NEW YORK HARBOR 16 Dec. 1926_

The sixteenth of December.

A full week away.

He's entirely unsure of what to do with this information.

The walk back gives him a chance to process. He weighs his options as he tries to remember the correct path through the maze of street blocks and avenues. Hypothetically, the choice is simple: he has enough funds at his disposal to rent a small room somewhere, and even if unforeseen circumstances demand the money for other expenses, his case provides a more than adequate place for him to sleep. He's incredibly grateful to Tina and Queenie for putting him up the past few nights, Merlin knows – but he can't continue to impose on their hospitality when he's not sure they would even extend the invitation in the first place, much less wish to have a virtual stranger in their home for seven days. He's awkward and introverted and far more experienced with the social customs of creatures than humans, but he is (a poor imitation of) a gentleman, and he refuses to trample on what little propriety his mother was able to drill into his head before he filled the rest of it with spells and research and creatures. So he's going to look for other accommodations on his way home, because it is the right thing to do, and it is that exact moment that he realizes he mentally referred to the apartment as "home," and he thinks he might be in a deep sort of trouble.

 _Merlin's bloody beard. What have I gotten myself into?_

He doesn't have time to wonder about the irrationality of his feelings. The building at 679 West 24th Street is looming before him; he focuses his energy on slipping past Mrs. Esposito's dogged surveillance with some (not-so) fancy footwork and a well-placed silencing charm. Sunset is creeping through the windows, and when he opens the door to the Goldstein apartment, he finds both sisters, wands in hand, cooking and tidying up and communicating through familiar gestures and jokes that fall just a little flat. Tina looks up at him when he walks in, and their eyes meet for a moment before he finds he has to look away.

"There you are," Queenie says, adding vegetables to a pot of soup bubbling away on the stove. "You get that errand run at the docks today?"

He's perfectly well aware of how she knows, but the sensation of having his thoughts plucked by a Legilimens is still unfamiliar. "Yes," he asserts, setting his case down by the sofa and removing his scarf and coat. "Though I'm afraid I've…hit a little bit of a snag."

Both sisters turn to stare at him so fast he's almost startled. They wear the same look of wide-eyed apprehension as they glance from him to his case, and for two people with such dissimilar features, he's amazed at just how alike they appear. "Oh, no! Merlin, no, that's not…" he stammers, realizing the source of their anxiety. "Everyone is back where they're supposed to be, I assure you. It's more of a…transportation issue."

Tina relaxes with that. "What's the problem with transportation?"

"Well." He scratches at his neck, feeling the tips of his ears warm despite himself. "The distinct lack of it until December sixteenth is a particular concern."

Newt expects there to be a reaction to his pronouncement beyond Tina's furrowed brow and Queenie's nonchalant toss of her hair. "So?" the latter says, stirring the soup with a flick of her wand. "It's kinda like an extended vacation, right?"

"Erm, I suppose so, but – "

"But you ain't got a place to stay?" She chuckles, and he's not sure what's funny. "'Course you do, silly. You can stay here with us. We don't mind, right Teen?"

Tina looks slightly startled. Queenie gives her some sort of look Newt can't interpret; she averts her eyes and he watches a flush creep (very prettily) up her throat. "No," she says, and after a moment, she looks up at him with a shy grin. "Besides, we've just gotten good at creature wrangling. Wouldn't want to cause another international incident if anything gets loose."

Newt is in strange, potentially dangerous territory. He knows this, just like he knows the care and feeding of magical creatures, the absurdity of human emotions, and the sheer impropriety of accepting such a generous offer. But he also knows that there is a warmth blooming in his chest, and when Tina smiles at him like that, soft and open and without reservation, he thinks that, just maybe, none of that matters after all.

"So," Queenie says, and presses a bowl of soup into his hands. "Will you stay?"

He smiles. "Yes. I'll stay."

And he does.

* * *

 _Reviews are a cuddle from Pickett and a piping hot bowl of Queenie's soup._


	3. Rebuilding

_Once again, a huge and humbly grateful "thank you" goes out to those who read and reviewed the last two chapters of ashes - I appreciate you people more than you'll ever know. This update is brought to you by some of my personal character headcanons and a need to see these poor kids have fun in some form or fashion. Here's hoping you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it._

* * *

 _December 9th - 11th, 1926_

* * *

Perhaps if he were more inclined to indulge in self-examination, he would wonder at how seamlessly he fits into the organized chaos that is life in Tina and Queenie's brownstone. His mornings begin early enough to feed and care for all his creatures before either sister is awake enough to start breakfast, though there are a few occasions where Tina is almost halfway out the door before he or Queenie can make it to the table. They eat their morning meals in companionable silence, each focusing on their own particular list of tasks and responsibilities, before parting ways for the bulk of the day, Tina and Queenie to MACUSA, Newt to his research. They regroup for dinner as the sun sinks below the skyline, full of stories and chatter and observations, and spend the evenings simply _being_ in each others' presence before drooping eyelids make them part ways for the night. It is quiet, and easy, and comfortable in ways he couldn't explain if it had ever dawned on him to try, so he doesn't. He settles into the rhythm they've created and lets it carry him along, and if he stammers a little more at times or he can't quite seem to make eye contact during conversation, the Goldstein girls don't seem to mind.

He spends his days alone doing what he does best: studying his creatures. No matter how thorough or exhaustive his notes are, there always seems to be something he's missed, some little detail that will probably prove minor to his editor but seems vastly important to him. His first order of business is to reinforce the enclosures in his case – after all, it wouldn't do to have his Erumpent getting loose again – but his second is to document his now-confirmed hypotheses about the obliviative properties of Swooping Evil venom, which leads him to a ridiculous set of calculations about the proper ratio of venom to water for optimal dilution, which leads him to wondering exactly how much water is present in a Thunderbird-created storm, which leads him to a migraine before he decides that perhaps the exact volume isn't so important after all. He catalogues his findings, and before long he has one page, then two, then twenty, and then he is writing, and a manuscript begins taking shape, and he realizes in the nick of time that he'd better feed his creatures and wash up unless he wants to be present for his own dinner rumpled and messy and spattered with ink blots. He works, and he sketches, and throughout it all, he _learns._

He learns a good bit from listening. While he's not familiar with company that is human rather than animal, he finds that he enjoys conversation, even if he prefers to observe it more often than he likes to participate. He gains a great deal of knowledge about the inner workings of MACUSA just from the explanations Queenie and Tina give him to clarify elements of stories they tell about the office. He gleans that Abernathy is an insufferable pest to the elder Goldstein and an annoying puppy to the younger; he learns from Tina that the real Percival Graves was found imprisoned in his own home, locked in an exceptionally tiny broom closet while Grindelwald wore his face in search of the Obscurial. He finds out from his own curious inquiry that Grindelwald is being held under constant surveillance by a team of Senior Aurors, and despite his grandiose nature, the dark wizard has yet to say a thing. But he also discovers that his source of this new information is perplexed, as Tina is not at all sure why she's being kept in the loop about Grindelwald when she is still classified as a Wand Permit Officer.

"Oh, that's not gonna last long," Queenie says that Friday night as they sit down to dinner. "They're gonna put you back on the investigative team once they clear up some of the muck. I mean, what else would they do with someone who singlehandedly held her own against Grindelwald when a whole team of Aurors couldn't?"

Tina begins to argue that she didn't fight Grindelwald, she dueled Graves, and Newt and Queenie watch as the realization dawns and her eyes go wide and she very nearly drops her fork. "Mercy Lewis I _did,"_ she breathes. Newt and Queenie dissolve into laughter, but after a moment to collect herself and shoot a glare at the both of them, Tina follows suit.

(Her laugh is melodic and free, and Newt files this information under _Things He Doesn't Know What to Do With_.)

He finds that asking questions also yields information of a more personal nature, though he is always apprehensive about posing an inquiry that is too personal. Queenie never hesitates to give him an answer; he thinks she's so open with others because her Legilimency forces others to be open with her. He learns a great deal about Ilvermorny from talking about respective schools, comparing what he knows of Hogwarts with the information Tina and Queenie offer up regarding their alma mater, and while he is still unsure of how certain aspects of the American wizard school work in practice, he is not surprised to learn that Queenie – a Pukwudgie, he notes – almost became a Healer but dropped out of the program because her Legilimency made her too empathetic to those in pain. Instead, her talents were focused on potion making, and based on the brew she gave him post-Grindelwald when his insides felt like a mess of bruises, she's extremely good at it. He wonders if her love of cooking stems from her ability to combine and create, but because he doesn't know how to ask that particular question, he decides to leave it for another time.

Tina, however, is much less of an open book. She does not speak often of her past; most of what he knows about her comes from direct observation and tends to involve MACUSA. At first he wonders if she is simply shy – an interesting dichotomy, considering the no-nonsense Auror who dragged him in front of her superiors for code violations _twice_. But as time goes on, he begins to think that it is not shyness that makes her reserved – it just does not occur to her to speak of herself with the same freedom that Queenie does. She is smart as a whip and obviously has no qualms about going toe to toe with some of the most powerful individuals known to wizard-kind, but she communicates with actions, not words. Queenie is the one to tell him Tina graduated at the top of her class and was chosen by both Wampus and Thunderbird before she elected to join Thunderbird house, and he locks these little details away as Queenie looks on with pride and Tina blushes a lovely shade of scarlet.

"It's not bragging if it's true, Tina," Queenie sing-songs, and when Tina retorts that _yes, it is_ exactly _bragging if it's true,_ Newt forces himself to smother a grin.

He does manage to learn a few things about her without Queenie's help. She has a knack for wordless magic; he can scarcely remember hearing her cast a spell with any kind of verbal focus. She prefers to be barefoot at home and will only make exceptions for thick socks or warm slippers. Roughly eighty percent of the books in the brownstone belong to her; she reads curled up in the corner of the sofa for a little while each night while he works on his manuscript and Queenie hums along to music playing from the gramophone. She chews the corner of her lip when in deep thought and tucks hair behind her ears when embarrassed. She never removes the locket hanging about her neck – well, discounting The Blind Pig, when she couldn't tuck it into her shirt. She never takes a second helping of anything until everyone at the table has eaten their fill. And she has a protective streak a kilometer wide – something he gets to witness first hand when MACUSA sends a pigeon to their window at nine thirty-seven p.m. on Saturday night.

He's not quite sure how the whole debacle starts, honestly. He thinks he remembers seeing Tina perk up from her spot on the couch, shushing Queenie and prompting her to turn off the gramophone. For a moment, there is nothing but the soft crackle of the fire and the barely-audible whisper of their own breathing, but suddenly he hears it: a soft tap on glass, arrhythmic but present, coming from the window facing West 24th Street. Tina is on her feet in an instant, wand at the ready, forcing Queenie and Newt behind her as she goes to investigate the sound.

They are all relieved to find a dopey-looking carrier bird on the windowsill. Tina huffs out a breath as she unlatches the catch and slides the window open. The pigeon seems a bit twitchy, but it allows Tina to unfurl the scrap of parchment attached to its leg, and Newt watches her expression go from wary to curious. "It's from Picquery," she explains, looking about as confused as he imagines he does. "She wants you to come in for a briefing at two o'clock on Tuesday."

Newt blinks. "Me? What could she possibly want with me?"

Tina doesn't get a chance to answer. Whatever she's opened her mouth to say is cut off by the blare of an automobile horn from the street, and in that moment, all hell breaks loose.

The pigeon shoots forward from the windowsill. Its frayed nerves are evidently shot with the unexpected blast; Queenie shrieks as it swoops in and almost collides with her head. It beats its wings in a frenzy as it flaps from one corner of the apartment to another, searching for a safe place to land and finding only picture frames and knick knacks that clatter and tumble in its wake. Newt jumps when it careens in his direction and nearly splashes ink all over the table in his haste to move. Only Tina seems to have any idea what to do in this situation, and that control is fast slipping through her fingers as she attempts to aim immobilizing spells in its direction but cannot get a lock on the target.

"Get its attention!" Tina yelps over the commotion, ducking as the errant bird heads her way. "Newt, get its attention and I can stop it! Hurry!"

He wants to ask just exactly how she expects him to do that, but the pigeon is making a direct line for the stove and he has no time to pose the question. His fingers come up to his lips on instinct and he whistles the best imitation of a Diricawl mating cry he can, hoping that even if the species is wrong, the frequency will be close enough to distract it.

Thankfully, he's right. The pigeon makes an almost humorous about face at the sound, halting in midair just long enough for Tina to cast the immobilization charm and pluck the animal out of its flight. She secures it in one hand, marches back to the window, and casts _Finite Incantatem_ just before rearing back and lobbing the bird out the window with all the grace of a chaser pitching a particularly troublesome quaffle through its hoop. An instant later they hear the flap of wings, and the pigeon is on its way back to MACUSA, nervous and panicked but no worse for wear.

Newt doesn't think the same can be said for the apartment.

A stack of books has been upended from one of the bookshelves. The small painting of an owl hung between the two windows has crashed to the floor. One of the lamps has been tipped over and is about an inch away from plummeting off the end table; there is a small tear in the left sheer curtain panel. And there are smoky-grey feathers _everywhere_ – on the rugs, in the couch cushions, atop the cabinets, on the pillow Queenie used to cover her head, in the soft dark waves of Tina's hair. They all take a minute to survey the damage, each sucking in gulps of air and staring about themselves with wide eyes and slack expressions.

"Well," Newt offers after a moment. "At least it wasn't an Occamy."

Tina snorts out a laugh before she can help herself. She claps one hand over her mouth but it's too late; she dissolves into peals of mirth, and Queenie and Newt can't help but join her. They laugh until their sides ache and their eyes are streaming, and he's sure Mrs. Esposito will come marching up the stairs to check out the commotion at any moment, but he can't bring himself to mind. This is a new sensation for him, this _freedom,_ this ability to sit in the company of humans and feel anything but restlessness or awkwardness or discomfort. It is a process, and he is not so far from where he started, but it's by far the furthest he's ever been, and it is _something_. He's growing. He's changing, just a little. He's _learning_ , and for the first time since Leta, that does not make him afraid. So Newt smiles, and he laughs, and he lets his shell crack just a little. And as he looks up at the frustrating, brilliant, enigmatic Auror doubled over with giggles before him, he thinks that in all his travels, he hasn't seen anything quite so beautiful.

* * *

 _Reviews are full-body laughter and the company of good friends._


	4. Fault Lines

_Bless all of you loyal, wonderful people for continuing to read and review. This chapter contains one of the first scenes I ever outlined for ashes; naturally, it's the chapter I was most nervous to actually write. Here's hoping it turned out the way I wanted it to._

 _(P.S. Newt and Tina have minds of their own.)_

* * *

 _December 13th, 1926_

* * *

Newt does not manage to see Tina off on Monday. She leaves for MACUSA before he can make it out of his case. But when she returns to the brownstone that night, an hour late and rigid with emotions he cannot place, he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that something is wrong.

Queenie senses it. He thinks that should be a comfort to him (it isn't). Judging from the look on her face, she doesn't know how to fix this any more than he does. Tina, for her part, is either oblivious to the fact that she's being studied or she's ignoring it – either way, he can see the barely discernable tremor in her hands as she wrestles out of her coat, and if she's aware she's shaking, she doesn't show it. She won't look at him, but when he finally does catch sight of her face, her eyes are flint-hard and high color is splotched in patches of bloodrush on her cheeks.

She is _livid,_ and if the tense line of her shoulders is any indication, she is doing everything in her power not to snap.

Queenie proves to be a braver soul than he. She takes a cautious step toward her sister, setting her wand down carefully on the table. "Tina?" she begins, hesitant. "Honey, what's the matter? Did something – "

Whatever question she was going to ask is not one that Tina wants to answer. "Leave it alone, Queenie," she says, and her voice is soft, but he can hear the steel underneath. She's still not looking up at either of them, but he's beginning to realize she won't face them because she _can't_.

Queenie, however, is not deterred by her sister's prickly defenses. Her gaze follows Tina as the elder Goldstein edges past them, bound for the safety of the bedroom. He can't tell what she's seeing in Tina's mind, but her eyes go wide and her hand reaches out seemingly of its own accord. "Tina, what did they do? What did you – "

"Queenie please, for the love of God, just stay out of my head!"

Tina's voice cracks on the last word. Her expression is a brief flash of anger and desperation, eyes glinting liquid in the lamplight. She slides the bedroom door closed, and when it latches, he thinks he hears the strangled intake of her breath. But then there is nothing but silence and stillness, and he and Queenie are left to stare blankly at each other and wonder what on earth _happened_.

Queenie is the first to recover. She looks helpless, he realizes, and it dawns on him that this might be relatively unfamiliar territory for her too. "I can't read her when she's like this," she says, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. "I can't make sense of what's goin' on in her head. She's not trying to keep me out but she's doin' it anyway. I don't know how to help her if she won't let me in."

He flashes back to a night much like this one, when Tina was pleading through the door and their roles were reversed. The words are out of his mouth before he knows he's spoken them. "What can we do?"

Queenie shakes her head. "I don't know." Her hands flutter before her like wounded birds, reaching for something that isn't there. "I don't know, and neither does she. Whatever this is, she's…she's gotta make sense of it on her own first. She's gotta come to us."

Newt's chest feels oddly tight. "Will she?"

The younger Goldstein gives him a sad smile. "Yeah. I hope so."

But she doesn't come to them. She _doesn't_ come, and he's not sure why that concerns him, but it does. He cannot quite wrap his mind around her; she does not fit into any of the messy little boxes he's set up for everything else taking space in his head. She is a contradiction, an anomaly, all hard edges and soft corners and jagged vulnerability hidden beneath layers of hexes and steel, and it's driving him mad because he doesn't _do_ people, but somehow in the span of a week he's let three slip past his defenses, and she is the only one he cannot seem to understand. He cannot keep from casting glances at the bedroom door throughout dinner, and if Queenie notices his preoccupation, she doesn't say a word.

Dinner feels unsettlingly strange without her. When seven thirty rolls around with no movement from the bedroom, Queenie decides she's had enough.

"I'm just gonna pop out and get some more cocoa," she tells him, broadcasting her hope that the beverage will be able to soothe her sister in ways that they can't. She winds her scarf about her neck and says something about being back "in two shakes;" Newt nods because he's not sure what else to do and he suspects that half the reason Queenie's leaving is to clear her own head. (Not that he can blame her – between him and Tina, he's not sure what kind of swirling mental maelstrom she's been on the receiving end of for the last hour and a half.) He waits for her to get down the stairs before retreating into the safety of his case, and after pacing around his shed while trying (failing) to get his thoughts in order, he gives up on thinking and loses himself in sketches that are far too human to be included in his book.

When the knock comes, quick and hesitant, he's nearly startled out of his chair.

Tina Goldstein is standing before him when he throws back the lid of his case. She looks exhausted; deep purple smudges are ringed beneath her eyes and she's worrying her fingers with the air of someone torn between fear and action. But her gaze is clear, and if her voice is a little hoarse from disuse, he pretends not to notice it.

"Hi," she mumbles, not quite holding his gaze. "Can I…can I help?"

He doesn't hesitate a moment when he beckons her into the case.

There are some things he's only now learning about her, now that he has the opportunity to see her on his turf. She studies everything she sees with a fascinating intensity that he can guess comes from her Auror training, drinking in each sight with finality and wonder. She is content to listen to his explanations of each creature and carefully follows his directions when feeding or handling them. She trails along behind him as he leads her from enclosure to enclosure, careful not to disturb the creatures who call each space "home," and she barely flinches when the Nundu bares its teeth at them in puffed pride, though she chooses to observe from a distance while he slops a bucket of raw meat out for its dinner. But all the while, in each new environment with each new creature, he notices that she's smiling at him, but those smiles do not reach her eyes. There's something about her that's present with him but not quite _there;_ her hands are restless and she seems to throw herself headfirst into anything that will distract her from what's plaguing her mind. There's a part of him that wants to ask if she's all right, but he can't seem to find the words, so he does the only thing he can think to do and drags her around the case with him, taking a little bit of hope each time she asks a question or looks up at him with an expression he can't quite read. She finally laughs when he brings her to the Occamy nest, and if the sound infuses his chest with a little warmth, he pays it no mind.

He doesn't account for Dougal.

His Demiguise is an odd creature, he can admit with fondness. Dougal is a solitary being by nature but links himself to whatever – or whomever – he deems in need of care or observation: namely the Occamy hatchlings, and Jacob after the incident in Macy's attic. But Dougal must see something in Tina that Newt cannot, because he pads over from his tree swing to skirt around the nest, and when his long fingers catch the edge of Tina's sleeve, there is the briefest moment where Newt can swear he sees Dougal's eyes flash blue.

Tina looks almost startled by the attention but recovers quickly. "Hi, Dougal," she murmurs, reaching out to touch the silky white fur of his forearm. She is kneeling in front of the nest with Newt to her left; she angles herself to face the creature politely demanding her attention. "What is it, huh? What do you need?"

Newt opens his mouth to speak, but Dougal's actions silence him. The Demiguise slowly extends a curious hand to touch Tina's wrist, drifting up to graze her sternum before his fingers finally settle on the gold locket hanging suspended from her neck. His eyes map her face with a soft look; the faintest blue halo ghosts the edge of his irises before disappearing. Tina's back is to Newt, so he cannot know her expression, but she is still, unwavering as Dougal cradles her locket in his hand, and the Demiguise's fathomless eyes study something that neither human has the ability to see. Newt wonders if he should interfere, but hesitation holds him back. He watches Dougal hold Tina's gaze for one long moment before reaching up to wrap gentle arms around her shoulders, and as the Demiguise nuzzles his face into the crook of Tina's neck, Newt finds he cannot bring himself to look away.

Tina is frozen, at first. Her arms hang limp at her sides, hands slack and shoulders tense. It takes a conscious effort for her to move, but her body finally reacts; Newt watches her clutch Dougal close for just a moment, her head tipped forward and her hair swinging loose about her face. She holds on until Dougal releases her, pulling back just far enough for him to once again find her locket and press it into her free hand. Then he is gone, ambling back to his swing, leaving Newt and Tina alone (together) by the nest, the former speechless, the latter silent.

In a rare moment of reversal, Newt recovers first. "Terribly sorry about that," he says, not sure whether an apology is necessary but offering one just in case. "Demiguise are somewhat sociable creatures but he's not usually so, erm… _clingy_."

Tina just shakes her head in reply. "He's fine." She dusts off the knees of her trousers as she pushes herself up from the ground, and Newt doesn't miss that she still hasn't turned to face him. "I left somethin' in my jacket, I'm just gonna go grab it and come right back."

Newt frowns at that. Her change in demeanor is noticeable, even to him; he hears a rough edge to her voice that was not there before. "Is everything all right? I can – "

"No, no, it's fine." She tucks her hair behind her ears and starts off toward his shed. "Don't worry about it, I'll be back in a minute."

He opens his mouth to call her back, but she is gone before he can manage it. He spends the next few minutes trying not to think about the wobble in her words as he tosses roaches to the Occamy hatchlings and delivers a supper of mealworms to the Bowtruckles, saving Dougal for last. "What did you see?" he asks, puzzled, watching absently as the Demiguise picks his way through a meal of fresh fruits and greens. Dougal does not answer him aside from offering up a small section of orange; Newt runs a hand through his mop of hair and paces the length of the little habitat as he waits for Tina to return. When a quarter hour passes and there is still no sign of her, he tucks Pickett into his collar and decides to set off looking for her on his own.

He finds her perched on the edge of the flat rock in Frank's enclosure, knees drawn up to her chest and staring across the false horizon at the setting sun. She doesn't look at him when he approaches. Her gaze is fixed in front of her; it is only when he gets closer that he realizes her cheeks are wet with tears. Something deep in his chest plummets into the pit of his stomach. _That's why she ran,_ his brain supplies unhelpfully. She must notice his presence after a moment, because she angles her face away from him and he watches her lift a hand to scrub the offending moisture from her skin.

 _("You gotta let her come to you,"_ her sister had said, so he chooses not to ask questions and tries to ignore the fact that she's been crying.)

"I built this in a mad rush the night before I smuggled Frank out of Egypt."

The words come almost unbidden. It's not anything along the lines of what he had intended to say, but it's the first thing that pops into his mind. He smiles a little at the memory. "Did a shoddy job of it, the first time. Had to keep making it larger once he got used to spreading his wings again. I should probably repurpose it now that he's gone, but…" He shakes his head. "I can't quite bring myself to do it. It just feels…wrong, somehow."

Tina sniffles quietly and nods. She doesn't react when he settles himself next to her. He watches her out of the corner of his eye, studying the measured, shaky intake of her breath and the way she's clutching her locket. He wonders if there's something he should _do_ – it feels wrong to just sit here when she's so obviously hurting, but he has no point of reference for this situation. He's only known her for a week; he has no idea how to read her. He almost wishes Queenie were here just to make sure he doesn't bugger anything up, and he's so lost in his own preoccupation with _how_ to help her that he almost misses her voice, small and hoarse and raw, as it issues from the space beside him.

"Picquery held a departmental meeting today, to discuss the situation with Grindelwald and…Credence."

Newt goes very still. He's terrified to spook her, lest she fall silent again. She stumbles a bit over the mention of Credence but he watches her shake her head and she continues, tone empty and lifeless. "With the combined mess of Grindelwald's impersonation of Graves and a documented case of an Obscurial on U.S. soil for the first time in well over a hundred years, everybody's a little on edge. So as of today, the International Confederation has set new protocols for dealing with Obscurials in place, to ensure that what happened in New York never happens again."

Newt ponders the weight of her words in silence for a moment before a cold wave of dread washes over him. "You can't mean that they're going to eliminate them," he stammers, bordering on frantic. "They can't do that. They – they _can't."_

"They can." She huffs out some semblance of a laugh, but there's no humor in it, and all he hears is hopelessness. "They can, and that's what they're going to do, because all they can see is the threat. They can't see the scared, beaten kid that's being eaten alive by a _parasite_ that latched onto him because he's been abused enough to hate who and what he is. They _killed_ him." She pauses. Her eyes have welled up; Newt watches in horror as twin trails of saline trace their paths down her cheeks. "They killed a young man who was a victim of circumstances beyond his control, and they still think that what they did was _right._ "

Bile burns at the back of Newt's throat. He can feel his hands shaking; he remembers Gisa's limp, lifeless body in his arms and desperately wants to throw up. "So every magical government known to the Confederation is authorizing the murder of children to preserve the statute of secrecy, because they cannot be _bothered_ to find a better solution than that."

"Technically, no. Protocol dictates that any child is to be protected and escorted to a safe location if at all possible. But once the Obscurus form manifests and they can't reason with it…" She shakes her head again. "It's the only way they know how to contain it."

He can't help himself. Rage sings through his blood; his knuckles go white beneath the freckled, scarred skin of his hands. "They can't do this," he repeats, suddenly understanding Tina's absolute fury when she first arrived home. "This is one step up from bloody _genocide_ ; they cannot condone slaughtering _children_ just to eliminate the threat of exposure. They need to be _studying_ these children, _helping_ them, not destroying them and the Obscuri attached." Something occurs to him that sends an icy chill down his spine. "They've already identified other possible Obscurials, haven't they?"

Tina looks miserable. "No. But they've started sifting through old reports of similar disturbances. It's only a matter of time before they figure out what's causing it."

 _(Gisa had grabbed his sleeve, lips stumbling over unfamiliar words as she looked up into his face, and she clung to him with waning strength because he was the only one in the village unafraid to touch her._

" _Will you help me, Mr. Newt?" Wide eyes, curly dark hair, consumed alive from the inside out. "Will you make it go away?"_

 _It is the second promise he is unable to keep.)_

He swallows against a wave of old grief. His eyes find the woman next to him and watch as she stares down at the little gold pendant in her hand.

"I can't stop thinking about him," she whispers, barely audible in the silence. "I can't stop thinking that there was something else I could have done. If I'd seen what she was doing to him earlier, if I had just gotten to him _sooner_ …" She rolls her lips between her teeth in a hard press, head shaking just noticeably. "I did everything I could to get him out of there, and all I succeeded in doing was getting myself fired and leaving that boy alone with a woman who beat him until he hated himself as much as she did. I abandoned him – he's dead because there was no one left to look out for him. I couldn't save him no matter what I tried." Her eyes search the horizon, twin points of obsidian flecked with amber and gold; the sheer amount of _pain_ he sees reflected in them starts an ache thrumming in his chest.

"I couldn't do anything to help him," Tina says quietly. "And when MACUSA starts hunting down more potential Obscurials, I won't be able to help them either, because I'm not an elected official or a politician or even an Auror anymore, for God's sake. They're going to go after kids who have nothing left in this world but hatred for themselves, and there's not a _damn thing_ I can do about it."

Newt can't stop himself. He turns to her, eyes wide, torn between an inexplicable desire to reach for her and the knowledge that doing so might shatter them both. "You didn't abandon him, Tina," he says with conviction. "You did more for him than anyone, you must know that."

She looks up at him in disbelief. "I didn't – "

"No," he interrupts, unwilling to let her finish that sentence. "Listen to me, Tina. You gave up your position as an Auror to stand up for someone who could not stand up for himself. You continued to track the Second Salemers after being demoted just to keep an eye on him. You duelled _Grindelwald_ to give that boy a fighting chance, and you were the only one he would listen to because he knew he could trust you. You are not responsible for what the whole of MACUSA did to him. The blame for his death is not on your shoulders."

She looks at him with an expression he cannot read. Her fingers hesitate in midair a long moment before reaching out to brush against the back of his hand. "The blame for his death isn't on your shoulders either, Newt," she murmurs slowly, and her eyes are bruised and haunted but she's _seeing_ him, and he has to avert his gaze. "If the fault doesn't fall on me, then it definitely doesn't fall on you. For Credence, or…or for the little girl in Sudan."

He forgets to breathe for a few seconds as the gravity of what she's said washes over him. He wants to ask her how she _knows_ , how she can have such _faith_ in him when she's known him for seven days and he's known himself for twenty-nine years and he so often has such little faith in his own heart. Something once tight and painful unfurls in his chest; warmth spreads from beneath his ribs to flood every corner of his system.

( _You need a giver_ , Queenie had told him, and he thinks this woman would break pieces off from herself freely to make others whole.)

He forgets his indecision in favor of pressing his palm against hers and lacing their fingers together. "Then neither of us should blame ourselves any longer," he says with finality, and if his voice is a little rougher than before, she pays it no mind.

They sit in silence until the sun sinks below the false horizon. When stars dot the conjured sky and he walks her back up to the apartment, her hand is still in his, and he has to remind himself to let go.

* * *

 _Reviews are a hug from Dougal and kind words when you need them the most. (And validation for an anxiety-ridden author, am I right?)_


	5. Restoration

_In deference to the fact that tomorrow is Easter Sunday, I decided to post this week's update a day early. (Not sure if that makes me impatient or logical, but since I'm a Ravenclaw, I'm gonna go with logical?) This chapter was one of the most difficult pieces I've ever written, and that includes my thesis on Faulkner and the myth of Southern aristocracy - however, I'm more proud of this than I am of anything else I've published. I really hope that you guys enjoy it, too._

 _Thanks once again for all the wonderful reviews!_

* * *

 _December 14th, 1926_

* * *

Newt's dreams that night are a tangled mess of memories bleeding into one another, Gisa and Credence and Grindelwald punctuated by Tina's panicked breathing in the death cell. He sleeps fitfully, and when he manages to emerge from his case for breakfast, the dark circles he sees beneath Tina's and Queenie's eyes tell him sleep was elusive for all.

He takes his time getting ready once the apartment is empty. His creatures come first – he makes his rounds, albeit a little slower than usual as he tries not to think of the meeting with Picquery that looms like a shadow over his head. He showers and shaves with little fanfare; his mind wanders until he can stall no longer and he is forced to knot his bow tie and bind up his case with twine. The New York City sidewalk is a welcome distraction for a few brief moments, but eventually the crush of foot traffic on the pavement spits him out in front of the Woolworth building, and Tina appears at the door to meet him at exactly 1:45. He follows her through MACUSA's labyrinthine halls, wishing very much that he'd stayed in his case this morning, and if Tina picks up on the dread he's sure is radiating off him in waves, she doesn't say a word.

She stops them in front of two massive wooden doors far too soon for his liking. "Picquery's office," she murmurs, tilting her head towards the rather ornate slabs of deep mahogany. When he doesn't respond, she tries prompting him. "Are you ready?"

"I don't suppose it particularly matters whether my answer to that question is yes or no." He tries for a joke, but it falls flat, even to his ears. He _hates_ these things – he's been at the Ministry long enough and spent enough time around Theseus to know a polite interrogation when he sees one. "Though, I would be correct in assuming that whatever Picquery's got up her sleeve won't end as badly as our session with Graves, would I not?"

Tina laughs, and he tries to focus on the warmth it creates. "Considering the amount of paperwork an international incident like your execution would require, I think you're safe." Her lips are tugged up in a smile; when he manages to look over at her, he feels his own follow suit. "Don't worry about Picquery. All she wants is your statement for the record. Just…think of it like charming a Nundu, and you should be fine."

"I think I'd rather take the Nundu," he says, only half kidding. She dissolves into muted giggles next to him, and when he grins despite himself, he wonders if she knows she's breathtaking when she laughs.

They both have to look away when the moment fades. Tina clears her throat to break the silence. "Well," she offers, awkwardly. "You'd probably better…"

"Right." He shifts his case from one hand to the other in apprehension. Tina notices and reaches toward him, though her hand stops in midair before it can actually land on his arm.

"Maybe you'd better…leave the case? Just to be safe?"

He remembers Picquery's rather firm instructions to remove said object from New York and grimaces. "Probably a good idea," he admits, and tightens his grip on the worn handle for a split second before offering it to her. Their fingers brush in the trade; Newt peeks up at her from beneath his fringe before nerves make him avert his gaze.

"I'll be here when you finish up," she says, and for some reason that comforts him as much as the weight of his case in his hand. He nods once in her direction, watching as she settles his case in front of her and takes a few steps back, and screws up his resolve long enough to deliver three sharp raps to the door.

"You may enter," a disembodied voice proclaims through the wood. Newt takes a deep breath and tugs on the handle, swinging the heavy panel open just wide enough to get through, and steps into –

Well. Somehow, this is not what he was expecting.

Picquery's office is a fairly large space that looks like a cross between his father's library and a Southern Gothic sitting room, bookshelves lining two walls and antique artwork adorning the rest. A fireplace flickers warmly to his left; light streams in through two rectangular windows to his right, falling onto dark wood furniture and upholstery stained with deep, rich color. The president herself sits at an intricately carved desk across from Newt; it takes him a moment to realize that aside from an enchanted quill scribbling away at some parchment near Picquery's elbow, they are the only two people in the room. He's not sure if that last bit of information is a relief or a concern, and the only thing that stops him from fidgeting uncomfortably is the thought that Theseus is going to get a _kick_ out of hearing about this.

"Mr. Scamander," President Picquery says, her voice somehow managing to be both commanding and cool. "Have a seat."

He does as she bids him. The chair is comfortable, at least, and he sinks into it, finding himself directly across from her before the desk.

(It all feels a little too much like he's been summoned to the headmaster's office again, but he tries very valiantly not to think of _that_.)

Picquery regards him in silence for a long moment. "I appreciate your cooperation in meeting with me today," she begins, posture regal and every bit as intimidating as he's sure she intends. Her gaze pins him to the chair. "Do you know why you're here?"

He focuses on a spot directly above her left shoulder when he's unable to look her in the eye. "Assuming that your standard protocol is the same as the Ministry's, I'm here to deliver a statement about my involvement with Grindelwald and Credence Barebone, the Obscurial."

He's sure she notices his deliberate use of Credence's name, but she shows no reaction beyond a single nod. "You would be correct, Mr. Scamander. We've gathered enough information from other witnesses to piece together a reconstruction of the events surrounding December sixth through eighth. What we lack is a definitive understanding of just how you fit into that puzzle, and I would like to hear that story from you."

Her manner is almost amicable, but Newt does not miss the undercurrent of steel beneath. He swallows. "Where would you like me to begin?"

"The beginning is as good a place as any to start." Her voice and expression give nothing away; he can't tell if she's mocking him or making a very dry joke. The quill at her elbow resumes scribbling. "What reason did you have for coming to the United States?"

He shifts a little in his seat. "I had acquired a creature native to this country and wanted to release him into his natural environment."

"And when did you arrive in New York?"

"December sixth, somewhere between ten and eleven o'clock in the morning."

"Did you have any prior knowledge of the disturbances occurring in the city before your arrival?"

"No," he says, and feels an inexplicable pang of guilt. "All I wanted to do was return my Thunderbird to his home."

"And you did that, albeit not in the manner you were initially intending." Picquery glances up from an open file before her. "You are well aware that the disturbances caused by the Obscurial were initially attributed to a magical beast. It has also been made known to us that during the course of your visit, a number of magical creatures escaped from your care and were, at various points of the aforementioned days, loose in the city. Can you explain how that happened?"

Despite himself, he winces. "Yes. Well…you have to understand that these creatures are not pets. I'm not keeping them out of amusement, I'm studying them in an effort to – "

"To understand their habits and present your Ministry-funded research in an effort to promote the preservation of little-known magical species." Picquery arches her brow at his look of surprise. "Yes, I've spoken to the Minister at length about the contents of your case. Luckily for you, he has assured me that you are authorized to be in possession of such…exotic cargo. However, that is not the issue I've brought you here to discuss."

He breathes a sigh of partial relief before he can stop himself. "What…what would you like to know?"

"We'll get to that. First, there are a few things I'd like to make sure you understand." Picquery rises from her seat with predatory grace. "You are currently in a unique position, Mr. Scamander. Because you are a foreign citizen and an employee of the Ministry of Magic, no less, you technically do not fall under my jurisdiction. However, your act of smuggling non-native magical creatures into this country despite the regulations prohibiting their breeding or ownership is a direct violation of a law designed to protect us from exposure. I trust you've been made aware of this fact?"

He nods, a little abashed. "Miss Goldstein might have mentioned that."

"Very good." Picquery takes a few fluid steps away from the desk, her voice firm but almost uninterested. "Then I'm sure you are also aware that the escape of these magical creatures from your custody is a blatant infraction of the National Statute of Secrecy, a statute we are required to take very seriously due to the social and political climates of this country."

It isn't a question. He forces himself to nod again.

"These laws were set in place to protect us from the fear and persecution we faced before we were forced underground. Without them, we devolve into war. In order to preserve the safety of both our society and that of the No-Majs, we cannot allow these laws to be disobeyed."

She falls silent for a moment. He is suddenly quite aware that she's staring at him; he has the fleeting thought that if looks could kill, he would probably be maimed.

"Your case of creatures is an exception to our regulations because of your position at the Ministry and your assistance to us during the mess with the Obscurial," she says coolly after a beat. "You will face no repercussions for the part your creatures played in the coinciding events. But make no mistake, Mr. Scamander, if an incident like this happens again, I will be forced to prosecute you to the fullest extent of the law. Is that clear?"

It is _abundantly_ clear to him in that moment how Seraphina Picquery is able to keep an entire magical government in line. He somehow manages to stammer out a "yes," hearing Theseus's good-natured laugh in his head as he assures the president that such an incident will never happen again.

"Then we understand each other," Picquery says simply, and the quill resumes its writing in earnest as she begins her questions and he proceeds to tell her everything from the Niffler's antics in the bank and meeting Jacob all the way through his and Tina's duel with Grindelwald and Credence's death.

(He remembers, after his words have died away and the quill has ceased scribbling, the hopelessness in Tina's voice and Credence's screams and Gisa's lips covered in blood. But it is not until Picquery looks up at him from her stack of notes that he realizes he has to _do_ something _._ )

The president studies him for a long moment. "MACUSA owes you a debt for your actions with the Obscurial, Mr. Scamander," she says, words weighted carefully. He feels something spark in his stomach at the omission of Credence's name. "You've given us more than enough to complete our investigation. I appreciate your cooperation in this matter. If there is nothing else you'd like to add – "

But there _is_ something else he'd like to add. A lot of somethings. He hears the dismissal and stops it before she has a chance to politely throw him out of her office, quite convinced of what he must do. "Actually, there is a…a question, I have."

Her eyes narrow at his interruption. "And what would this question be?"

He finds a spot on the desk and focuses on it, refusing to let his courage waver. "You've thanked me for my part in what happened with Grindelwald, and Credence. But what is to be done about Miss Goldstein? What's to be her part in all of this?"

Picquery raises her eyebrow. "I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific, Mr. Scamander. There are two Miss Goldsteins who work at MACUSA, and as I recall both were involved in the Obscurial incident."

He feels himself bristle at the deflection. "Yes, of course. I mean the elder Miss Goldstein, Tina. The witch who disarmed Grindelwald."

Picquery pauses at the distinction. Her head tilts ever so slightly, as if she is preparing herself for an argument she does not yet understand. "Miss Goldstein demonstrated valor and dedication during the course of this incident," she says after a moment, even and measured. "She's an example to her department, and she'll be given our appreciation for her efforts."

"But she won't be reinstated to her former position of Auror."

And that is the moment Seraphina Picquery sees _exactly_ where he's going with this.

"Miss Goldstein was relieved of her position due to a deliberate violation of the National Statute of Secrecy," she tells him with what feels like diplomatic finality. "As I mentioned before, we cannot condone blatant disregard for wizarding law, especially not when that disregard concerns the risk of exposure."

"Perhaps not. But I…I think we can both agree that certain exceptions to that rule can be made."

"Really." There is no question in Picquery's tone. "And to what _exceptions_ are you referring?"

He feels the tips of his ears go pink. "You've just assured me that despite my accidental violation of the same statute, I am being permitted to return to the Ministry without repercussions. Miss Goldstein performed much more heroic feats than I, yet she is still being relegated to an inferior position."

"Miss Goldstein intentionally hexed a No-Maj in front of a group famous for its anti-wizard sentiments," Picquery rebuts him, and he thinks he's succeeded in getting under her skin. "Her actions made it necessary to obliviate more than twenty Second Salemers, and her continued surveillance of the group was both unauthorized and in direct violation of her demotion."

"Miss Goldstein violated the law by defending a boy who turned out to be an Obscurial and attempting to stop a woman and an organization that actively made him into what he became," Newt says, and it is the memory of Tina's bruised, damp eyes that makes him brave enough to finish his statement. "If she had been allowed to complete her efforts, there might not have been an Obscurial on the rampage in the first place, and there would have been no need for a boy to die to eliminate the threat of exposure."

Picquery goes dead still and does not speak for a long moment. "I take it you recommend that she be reinstated to her former position by merit of her actions towards an Obscurial?"

"No," Newt murmurs, and forces his eyes up from the desk to face the President of MACUSA head on. "I recommend she be reinstated because she continued to do her job after being dismissed and arrested and sentenced to death by the very organization to which she's sworn her loyalty. If she is capable of maintaining that loyalty even in the face of such terrible circumstances…I believe it is only fair for the organization she's willing to fight and die for to show the same sentiment in return."

Silence descends over the room like a heavy weight as Picquery absorbs his words. It is only when the president relaxes her posture just slightly that Newt finds he is able to breathe again; when she speaks, he feels the faintest stirrings of _hope._

"You are a very interesting man, Mr. Scamander," she says with a respect that borders on grudging amusement. "It's not often that someone guilty of flouting the statute of secrecy as… _enthusiastically_ as you did stands up for the witch who arrested him. Nevertheless, in the interest of fairness and honoring the debt we owe…I will take your suggestion under advisement."

Newt looks up at her through the mess of his fringe. The exasperation just barely visible through Picquery's controlled expression lifts something in his chest he doesn't immediately recognize, and he waits with bated breath for the other shoe to drop, but it doesn't come.

"Please send Miss Goldstein in on your way out," Picquery dismisses him, and it is only when she begins perusing the files on her desk and tells him to "get that case Miss Goldstein is babysitting out of MACUSA" that he finds he is able to leave.

(Hours later, Tina will return to the brownstone with shining eyes and a disbelieving expression, and Queenie will squeal and sweep her sister into her arms, and Newt will watch with quiet joy as they celebrate what feels very much like a victory. But for now, Newt relishes the look on Tina's face when he ushers her into Picquery's office, and when he catches her fingers as she gives him back his case, the smile tugging at her lips is all the victory he thinks he needs.)

* * *

 _Reviews are Tina's laugh and a nod of approval from Picquery._


	6. From the Ground Up

_This chapter is brought to you from the stunningly beautiful mountains of North Carolina, where my equally stunning beta reader has allowed me to spend my pre-birthday weekend holiday. Here's hoping you guys enjoy the following bittersweet fluff as much as I've enjoyed hearing my beta squeal about it. As always, bless you all for the reviews! (And keep them coming - they make awesome early birthday gifts. *wink wink* *nudge nudge*)_

 _(Bonus points go to those who can find the John Mulaney reference hidden in this chapter.)_

* * *

 _December 15th, 1926_

* * *

Newt's not sure what triggers the idea. His head is a bittersweet mess of emotions; his impending departure is a weighted knowledge that sits deep in his chest. But the revelation comes as revelations are wont to do, singularly and without warning, and it is in the middle of breakfast on his last full day in New York that he drops his fork, scrubs an incredulous hand over his face, and declares apropos of nothing, "Merlin's beard, I am a blithering _idiot."_

(He thinks, in retrospect, that perhaps verbalizing his realization with that exact phrase wasn't the best way of doing things. But the solution's been staring him in the face this whole time, and though he cannot restore memories or alter laws or undo what has been done, he can give the friend who no longer remembers him this gift, and Queenie's tear-brimmed eyes as she reads and informs her sister of his intentions tell him it is enough.)

The plan that forms over breakfast requires all three of them to put together and involves knowledge of the city that Newt himself does not possess. The first thing he learns is that Moreton Dale Canning Factory is a brick and mortar workhouse that sits squarely in the middle of New York's 11th District, located within reasonable distance of the tenement buildings that form a ramshackle line down Rivington Street. It is the only establishment of its kind with such a close proximity to Jacob's apartment (though Newt thinks "apartment" is too grand a term); therefore it is the only logical option to be their aspiring baker's workplace. The factory employs hundreds if not thousands of workers; in order to keep productivity at its max, it operates on a series of overlapping shifts that begin at dawn and continue well past dusk. According to Tina, the cannery is also gated, leaving only one main point of entry and exit for its workers to file through at the beginning and end of the day, and it is in that mass exodus that Tina believes it will be easiest for Newt to switch the cases.

"Most first shift workers in factories get off around four p.m., and they'll be tired and distracted and won't pay much attention to the people around them," she says, downing the last of her coffee and clearing the dishes from the table. "If you can catch him in the crowd, you can swap out the cases and get away without making a fuss."

Newt pauses. "Why can't I just leave the case in his apartment?"

"Because you can't guarantee that he'll be the one ending up with the eggs at the end of the day," Tina tells him, sharing a look with Queenie that is tainted by something akin to sadness. "If the case is with him, it's safe, because the risk of mugging in broad daylight is low. But in his apartment, if it's left alone…it's just another temptation for someone who's down on his luck to steal."

Newt nods, filing the information away in one of the messy little boxes in his brain.

(Wisely, he does not ask if Tina and Queenie know this truth from experience).

The second thing Newt learns is that he is utterly hopeless at understanding how the city of New York actually _works._ Though his few solitary ventures forth from the brownstone were successful (and they _were_ technically successful, despite the fact that it took him two and a half hours to locate the docks), admittedly he found his way about through a combination of educated guesses and blind luck. Unfortunately for him, he soon learns that little landmarks mean nothing to his sense of direction; the fact that the city is composed of named and numbered streets that weave into and out of each other with little rhyme or reason also does nothing to help him make sense of the directions to the factory that Tina and Queenie try to give him. They spend almost ten minutes attempting to find common landmarks by which he can navigate, but none of them are familiar. By the time they've laid out his exact route from start to finish, he's begun to think that nothing short of divine intervention will get him to Moreton Dale without incident. He's resorted to pondering the merits of Apparating to various parts of the city and letting blind luck take over for him once again when the Goldstein girls finally take pity on him and try to explain the city's layout in a way he understands.

"It's kinda like a grid," Queenie tells him when information overload hits and his eyes begin to glaze over. "Just think of it like a buncha squares. You wanna go from 24th and 5th to 35th and 6th, it's just eleven up and one over."

He thinks of London with all its idiosyncrasies and wonders how on earth it seems so much simpler than New York. "And that is supposed to be easy?"

Two sets of dissimilar features give him the same look. " _Yes!"_

He decides to take their word for it. They leave him in the brownstone while they depart for MACUSA, promising to return and finalize the last details of the plan over lunch, and Newt spends those hours drafting a very short letter, because apparently exploring the city on his own runs him the risk of getting lost.

 _Mr. Kowalski,_

 _You are wasted in a canning factory. Please take these Occamy eggshells as collateral for your bakery._

 _\- A Well-Wisher_

He seals the letter and tucks it into the pocket of his waistcoat for safekeeping as he gathers up the silver shells. Jacob's Occamy slithers affectionately around his wrist, and Newt finds himself wondering as he strokes its shimmering feathers if Swooping Evil venom is a permanent cure for an individual's good memories, too.

Tina and Queenie arrive back at the apartment at exactly seven minutes past noon to handle the last remaining details of their plan. As Tina is proclaimed by her sister to be the best at charms, she is left in charge of duplicating Newt's case while he and Queenie go to scope out the factory and get a general idea of where the best place to catch Jacob would be. Queenie Apparates them to a nondescript alley two blocks from Moreton Dale and helps Newt predict the most inconspicuous path to take as he surveys the wrought-iron gate and its surroundings. When they think they've gathered all they can from the factory itself, they Apparate back to a hidden corner near the brownstone and return bearing sandwiches from the local deli, finding Tina kneeling on the floor by three volumes of _Chadwick's Charms_ and two (nearly) identical cases as they cross the threshold of the apartment. They make quick work of the sandwiches, and as the three of them fill the duplicate case with shards of precious silver, Newt is ridiculously pleased to discover that despite its lack of undetectable extension charms or magical creatures, Tina's managed to recreate his case down to the scarred, battered leather and the faulty latches. Newt seals the new case with care and attempts to lift it, almost stumbling into Tina when the weight is more than he expects; she steadies him and fixes the problem with an unfamiliar charm and they all have a good laugh when his ears stop flushing quite so pink. But, as always, time is the enemy, and when the clock above the mantelpiece chimes to signify the end of the lunch hour, the humor dissipates and a bittersweet weight descends to rest on the apartment.

Queenie wraps her arms around his shoulders and whispers a tremulous _"thank you"_ as he sees them to the door; he returns her embrace with cautious gentleness, finding his eyes drawn to Tina's as Queenie releases him and banishes any trace of glimmering saline from her lashes. Then the door closes behind them and he is left alone once again, pacing around the apartment until the clock reads ten minutes to four, and he Apparates with the shell-filled case to that same vacant alley, waiting for Jacob to appear in the sea of souls leaving Moreton Dale.

He does not have to wait very long. The loud, raucous blow of a whistle echoes through smog-filled air as the first shift comes to its end, and the steady flow of footsteps increases from a trickle to a flood to a deluge as one by one workers come pouring through the gates.

When Jacob, dazed and exhausted, becomes visible from behind the red brick walls, Newt feels his chest grow tight, and he tells himself that the stinging in his eyes is due only to the cold.

He returns to the brownstone as the sun sinks beneath the skyline, hands empty and heart full, somehow feeling both heavier and lighter than he did before he left. He lingers on the sidewalk and draws a deep, steadying breath of air before reentering the now-familiar space; a hard knot behind his sternum loosens when two sets of concerned eyes, one blue-green, one liquid brown, come up to meet his. Queenie takes a few halting steps toward him, her gaze seeking answers in his expression, and he pushes every thought he has of the exchange with Jacob to the forefront of his mind for her to see.

"He's got it," she whispers; he nods in response.

"He's got it," he says, and the smile that lights Queenie's face is the most real, fragile one he's seen since they left Jacob standing in the rain.

They eat their last dinner together in silence that is gentle and comfortable and soothing in ways he cannot bring himself to understand. When the food is gone and the fire has burned low, Queenie slips from the table to retire early, kissing her sister on the cheek and sending him one last grateful glance as she goes. Tina watches her leave, and when the two of them are alone in the kitchen together, she begins to gather up the remaining dishes and carries them to the sink, choosing to fill the basin with soap and warm water rather than reaching for her wand. Newt studies her from his position at the table as she rolls up her sleeves and dunks the first plate into the suds; he waits only a moment before fetching a dishtowel from one of the cupboards and (awkwardly) coming to stand beside her, watching as she scrubs the ceramic with slow and methodical care. She looks up at him with a soft expression as she realizes his proximity; he takes the plate from her hand with a quirk of his lips, and he does not question how easy it is to remain in her orbit when so little else has been simple. She murmurs a quiet _"thanks,"_ and they settle into a rhythm, her washing, him drying, voices low in the hush of the room, fingers never quite touching as she passes fragile, mismatched pieces of flatware from the sink into his hands, and they are nearly finished with the task when he points out a streak of soap that crosses her cheekbone, and her hand barely misses his when her alabaster skin warms and she reaches up to wipe the foam away. They laugh, gentle and unfettered until their eyes meet; it is when his gaze shifts from hers and goes back to stare at the foam-frothed water before them that he realizes just how much he's going to miss this (just how much he's going to miss _her_ ) when he's gone.

"I'll walk you to the docks on my break tomorrow," she murmurs, when the dishes are done and the hour is late and there's no other excuse for them to stand here together, and he nods and thanks her and tries to smile despite the weighted sadness that sinks into his bones.

"G'night Newt," she says, fingers brushing against his forearm as she passes, and she favors him with one last soft smile before disappearing from his view.

"Goodnight, Tina," he rasps, and he waits until her bedroom door is fully closed before retreating into his case.

He lies still, alone in the darkness, as the clock ticks ever closer to the moment he has to tell her goodbye.

His last conscious thought is of what her cheek would feel like beneath his fingertips before sleep claims him and he knows no more.

* * *

 _Reviews are soft, shared smiles and time spent with a close friend._


	7. Returning

_Well, folks... This is it. The final chapter. To say that I'm emotional about this would be an understatement. But I've got a list of one-shot ideas that's getting longer by the minute, and to quote Cher (because I'm a music nerd and the song carries great meaning), God willing, "you haven't seen the last of me."_

 _To my faithful readers and reviewers, you guys made this possible with every kind comment and hit on my (not so) little brainchild - you'll never know how much that means to me. And to my best friend, platonic soulmate, and beautiful beta...well. This one's for you, iirie. Here's hoping this last chapter means as much to you guys as it means to me._

 _(Side note: I listened to "West" by Sleeping at Last the entire time I was writing this chapter. I highly recommend giving it a listen, because holy hell, the feels are strong with this one.)_

* * *

 _December 16th, 1926_

* * *

Newt Scamander is no stranger to leaving.

Once upon a time, when the world was simpler and he was young, he bid his first temporary farewells on the solid ground of Platform 9 ¾, his mother's lips against his forehead and his father's arms around him, Theseus's palm broad against the jut of his shoulder as he took a glimpse into the face of the unknown. He boarded his first train bound for everywhere and nowhere at once, trepidation and anticipation and _adventure_ a heady mixture that saturated his blood and filled his lungs. In that moment, in that dizzying spread of his horizons, he learned as much about himself as he learned about his school, about magic, about the dark-haired girl with caramel skin and nightshade eyes that sat next to him in the banquet hall and made him smile when no one else could, and he clung to that sense of belonging because it was _steady_ – once upon a time, he would have believed that it would never change. But over the years, the departures and homecomings _shifted_ , until doors closed and windows opened and his heart learned to accept truths that cracked his chest even as they resonated in his mind, and leaving was the only thing that made sense in the chaos of it all. So he learned to leave, mile after mile, country after continent, searching for misunderstood and broken things, seeking freedom even as he thought of Mother and Father and Theseus and Leta and _home,_ and each step back into that first world made his heart pang and marrow whisper to begin the search once again. At the core of himself, in the spaces that exist between his ribs, Newt Scamander, brother, son, magizoologist, and friend, is no stranger to leaving.

But he's not sure he wants to leave this time. And despite all his experiences, despite every step he's taken since Platform 9 ¾, he finds he does not know how to say goodbye.

(He's terrified by the fact that, for the first time, it is something he does not want to learn.)

Something has shifted, somehow. Something has _changed_. It is a nebulous certainty that seeps beneath his skin; he does not understand it, but it is there, stuttering in his chest. It is a paradigm that's altered, a tiny tear in the fabric of who he is, or was, or what he's becoming. It's nothing and everything all at once, intangible yet sure. He's different somehow – different from the boy who left for school on a train, different from the teenager who broke himself to fix another and only succeeded in wounding them both, different from the young adult working in the Ministry to hide the stain on his name, from the man bleeding from unmarked wounds as he cradled a lifeless child in his arms. He is a mess of flaws and scars and fracture lines and pieces that are jagged and dulled; he is not, despite his gentle heart and lingering awkwardness, the same Newt Scamander that stood on that platform all those years ago, waiting for what's on the horizon, waiting to become something he's never been. But somewhere in the mess of chaos, somewhere between losing his Niffler and nearly losing his life, he found fragments of something that feel like himself – older and wiser, but less damaged. More _sure._ He found things he didn't know were missing in Jacob's laugh, in Queenie's smile, in Tina's eyes – he wasn't looking, but somehow, he thinks he found _home,_ or a part of it that fits in the empty spaces he's kept long buried _._ It scares him and warms him and twists him into a knot of indecision, because he can't stay, but he can't leave, and he shouldn't _need_ this much after only ten days in a city that isn't his with people that, in many ways, he barely knows.

But he does need them, in ways that he can't begin to explain himself. So when Queenie wraps her arms around him and makes him promise not to "be a stranger," and when Tina walks him every step of the way to the docks with too-bright eyes and a careful smile, he thinks that, perhaps, there's a part of them that might need him, too.

He can't focus as his feet lead him through the crowds of people that are leaving or returning or bidding their loved ones goodbye, as he feels her presence next to him, somehow both tentative and unwavering at his side. He can't focus as he runs out of footsteps and there's too little dock and too much gangplank and the words he can't say are backing up and forming a dam in his throat, choking him, writhing unspoken and anxious beneath his skin. He turns to her and watches the corner of her lip tug free from between her teeth in a smile that is as radiant as it is bittersweet; he looks at her until it hurts him and he's forced to look away.

"Well," he begins, and it's too much and not enough and nothing of what he wishes he were brave enough to tell her. "It's been, umm…"

"Hasn't it?"

His eyes dart up to take in her expression, watching as the smile that lights her features dims and something like reservation or embarrassment replaces it. She gives herself a little shake and focuses on her feet. "Listen, Newt, uh…" She pauses, as if warring with herself. "I wanted to thank you."

He's so flabbergasted by the notion that she feels she needs to _thank_ him for nearly getting her killed that the words come tumbling from his mouth on their own. "What on earth for?" he quips, though it is flat and self-deprecating and he can't bring himself to meet her eyes.

She shrugs shyly. "Well, y'know." He is prepared to protest but her expression halts the words on his tongue. "If you hadn't said all those nice things to Madam Picquery about me, I wouldn't be back on the investigative team now."

The gentle gratitude in her gaze is too much for him. _Yes you would_. He does not question the assurance – he's certain of it, certain of _her_. "Well, I can't think of anyone that I'd rather have investigating me," he says; it's only after the words leave his mouth that he realizes how they must sound.

(" _You're brilliant"_ is caught somewhere between his lips and tongue, but he can't _think_ around her, not now, not here, not when she's looking at him like that.)

He waits until the pang of embarrassment has faded to cautiously find her eyes. There is something he can't identify in their depths, something hesitant and soft and bright that begins an ache deep within the cage of his ribs. He watches her lips form a tight smile. "Try not to need investigating for a bit," she tells him; he seizes the opportunity to speak because it's so much easier than thinking about the barely discernible tremor in her voice.

"I will. A quiet life for me, from now on." (It's more than half a lie.) "Back to the Ministry, deliver my manuscript…"

"I'll look out for it," she promises. " _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them."_

He lifts his gaze from her mouth to her eyes, intent on thanking her.

Somewhere between the stuttering in his chest and the jagged vulnerability on her face, it hits him that he is not ready to leave her behind, and he can't bring himself to look away.

He's not ready to go back to the him he was before he stepped off a steamer and into her orbit, he realizes as he stands there, drowning in indecision, drowning in eyes that are liquid and open, that see him for what he is. He's not ready to go home to his office at the Ministry and his empty flat, to his family's arms and his publisher's prompting and the ghosts that have haunted him for more than a decade. He's not ready to give up the warmth and acceptance he's found for solitude, because he's tasted both and weighed each experience and he _knows_ , deep down, which one he prefers. He's been from one corner of the globe to another and found so much more than he ever hoped in running, but now, for the first time since he boarded that train, he finds he's tired of being the one to leave. Everything is different, just a little, but it's enough for him to feel his axis tilt, for his compass to seek out a new true north.

He is what's changed. And perhaps, at the core of it all, she is part of what's changed him.

( _"You need a giver,"_ her sister had told him, and he wonders if she knows how much he's already been given.)

She is the one who pulls him back from the abyss of his thoughts, the indecision in her eyes a direct counterpoint to the indecision in his chest. He finds nothing but trepidation and honesty reflected back at him. He's looking at _her,_ he realizes, not the layers of hexes and steel she wears about herself as armor. Her breath catches just a moment before she speaks; the words waver with emotion he is afraid to place as they stumble from her tongue. "Does Leta Lestrange like to read?"

He knows the answer to her question the moment she stops speaking, long buried memories of carrying abandoned schoolbooks back to the Slytherin common room brushing against the back of his mind like ghosts he cannot abandon. But he's so taken aback by the sound of that name on her lips he cannot register what she's asked, and he blinks in shock, because he can think of nothing else to do. " _Who?"_

He watches her pull back into herself, the tremor in her voice vanishing even as her gaze seeks to hold his. "The girl whose picture you carry," she says, shoulders rigid as if she's bracing for something unforeseen. He swallows around a sudden tightness in his throat, an unknown piece within him fracturing at the sight. He is all at once sure of what he needs to tell her; the words are a jumbled mess in his mouth but he pours everything he has into making sense of them.

"I don't really know what…Leta likes these days." He searches out her eyes, willing her to understand something he's only just learned himself. "'Cause people change. _I've_ changed… I think. M-maybe a little."

And he has, he _knows_ he has, because he's still standing here in front of her. He's holding her gaze and struggling to make her believe him, searching for words that will explain what's been happening in his head, in his heart since she found him, took him in, accepted him for what he is. He is the same in the ways that matter, but he's different in the ways that needed to heal, to change.

( _"You've changed me"_ hangs unspoken in the space between them, clear and glassy with truth. But he does not know how to tell her in a way that they can both believe, and when the last call for boarding echoes mournfully from the steamer's throat, he tears his gaze away from her so he won't see the saline rising in her eyes.)

"I'll send you a copy of my book, if I may," he tells her, after the ache behind his sternum is buried and her lips are once again curled back in the too-bright outline of a smile. She accepts with words strained by emotion, nodding even as her breath hitches and she tries to piece together the armor she's let him see beneath. He reaches out with trembling hands to let his fingers ghost across the plane of her cheek, memorizing the feel of warm skin beneath his fingertips as he brushes back the dark, soft waves of her hair, unable to speak beneath the weight that crushes his lungs. It takes everything in him not to reach for her, not to fold her against him and breathe her in because he knows what she feels like in his arms and he also knows that to touch her right now would shatter them both, and they're not ready for what that possibility could bring, not with so much distance between them. He steels himself and turns away, because it is the right thing to do, because it is the only thing he _can_ do, and he is about three steps from the gangplank when he realizes he can't get on that damned boat without knowing that, someday, he'll see her again.

"So sorry," he says, as she looks up at him with wet eyes and a stunned expression, feeling his own eyes begin to burn as he brings his gaze up to meet hers. "H-how would you feel if I…if I gave you your copy in person?"

He finds his answer in the curve of her lips, the shift of her posture, the lone droplet of saltwater that stains her skin and leaves a path of silver in its wake. "I'd like that. Very much," she says, and he holds on to the memory of her watery, gentle laughter as he turns away one last time and forces himself to leave without saying goodbye.

He won't say goodbye to her. He won't say goodbye, because months from now, perhaps fall, perhaps the middle of summer, he will return bearing a battered leather case and two books, and she will cradle the second in its freshly-pressed splendor as her fingers rove the loose-leafed, handwritten pages of the first, and they will spend hours talking and laughing and remembering until she looks up into his eyes and realizes their proximity and he wonders, for the first time, how her lips would taste. But for now, he forces himself to take one step after another, up the gangplank and away from her, until the wind caresses his face and tugs at his hair and begins to soothe the ache deep in his soul.

He's coming back, someday, as certain as the tide rises and falls. And when he does, be it weeks or months or years, perhaps he'll be brave enough to love her as much as she deserves.

* * *

 _Reviews are a first-edition copy of Newt's book and the promise of his heartfelt return._


End file.
